


I Push And You Tend To Shove

by CaptainLordAuditor



Series: New Americana [5]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Canon Era, Except Not Really an AU, Fun fact! jack sullivan was a mobster, Gen, Mentions of Violence, Minor Character Death Mention, Negotiations, Newsie Politics, Pre-Canon, Threats of Violence, Trans Male Character, but he's an oc who literally existed to be an asshole and then die so, mob boss spot conlon, which is a tag I just made up but should totally be a thing, which is to say: gang politics but toned down a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 16:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16162379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainLordAuditor/pseuds/CaptainLordAuditor
Summary: Spot brings words to a knife fight.





	I Push And You Tend To Shove

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place literally like 5-10 minutes after A Modest Adjustment, which is also in this series. Oh, also, I've made a map of the different territories at this point vs during the strike, which you can see here:  
> https://imgur.com/a/2anH35g

Spot Conlon stood in front of the leaders of Lower Manhattan with an easy confidence in his gait. Weight on his heels, shoulders back, arms crossed loosely at the wrists in front of him. Chin up. Level gaze from his grey eyes at the girl in front of him. It was all as fake as her posturing, the way she slumped so far back in her chair she was barely seated in it. Less false was Cowboy, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

That was what Spot was going to learn to do. One day he’d be real the way Sullivan was.

“Word on the street is Flip got deposed.” Fidget idly turned her knife over in her hands. That wasn’t fake. Her father had been a butcher, and Spot knew she could use a dozen types of knives as well as he used his cane.

Spot nodded. The less talking he had to do the better. Talking gave her the upper hand. “Yeah.”

“Word is he got found in the river.” Fidget was trying to get him to admit to something.

Spot didn’t say anything. He’d heard about that, too. Someone in Greenpoint had found him, in the East River. Spot didn’t know how he’d ended up there, three days since they’d left him by the bridge, in Ramshead territory. For one thing, he’d expected Flip to freeze to death in this weather, not drown.

When Spot and the others had last seen Flip, he’d still been alive, but he didn’t say that. It was death, what they’d done, beating him until he could barely speak or walk, in December. Maybe in the summer he’d have lived, but in the summer they could’ve afforded what Flip was asking. Regardless, Spot hadn’t killed him with his own hand, but he may as well have. Besides, fear seemed like a good thing right now. Not enough people were afraid of the Ramsheads. Spot intended to change that.

Fidget sighed. “So, Flip’s dead.”

Ha. She’d lost now, speaking first. Spot very carefully didn’t smile. “I ain’t here about Flip.”

“Sure you ain’t,” Fidget told him. “But you’s one of his.”

“Not any more.” Spot took a deep breath, resettling his stance, just a bit wider. “I’ve taken over the Ramsheads.”

Fidget snorted; Cowboy chuckled, then laughed. “ _ You _ ?” it was the first time he’d spoken since they’d exchanged greetings. Then, as if he was so much older than Spot instead of one year, “You’s, what, ten?”

“Twelve,” Spot corrected him. People often thought he was younger than he was. It was a side effect of being a changeling. Girls matured faster than boys in their heads, people said, but boys aged faster in their faces. When one was a changeling, meant to be one and exchanged for the other, it got confusing to other people. Most of the time, Spot didn’t mind. It meant he sold more, people taking sympathy on the younger kids. 

Fidget pulled herself out of her laughter. “You. Leader of Ramsheads.” She shook her head. “So, is the Ramsheads so stupid they sent their leader to give that little message to us alone, or has you got something else?”

She was trying to shut him down, make him feel inadequate, and it almost worked. Besides his backup plan Spot didn’t have much else, really. He didn’t even have a proper second yet. Fidget was right; coming here was a risk, one he probably shouldn’t have taken. 

“I got a deal for youse.” This was a risk, too; if Fidget decided she wanted revenge on the Ramsheads more than she wanted stability for her own kids, it was all for nothing. Spot would probably be dead. Cruncher would have to take the Ramsheads, and Spot didn’t want that. He might end up another Flip.

Fidget and Cowboy glanced at each other. Cowboy shrugged. Fidget sighed and nodded for Spot to go on.

“We took Flip out of leadership ‘cause he was raring for war,” Spot explained. Fidget probably already knew, given the moves Flip had been making at Two Bridges, but it was good to keep things clear. “Neither of us wants that. Not now. We can’t affords it. So Ramsheads, we decides to make you an offer. We leaves you with Two Bridges. Make the bridges theyselves neutral. No fighting.” 

Fidget’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll think about it.”

She was going to take it, Spot was sure of that. “I’ll think about it” wasn’t an answer, not from Fidget, but Spot knew Fidget couldn’t afford a war any more than he could. He nodded, and turned to go.

He was almost to the door when Fidget spoke again. “Not good enough.”

He’d been afraid she’d say that. Spot stopped and turned around again to look at her. Fidget had a gleam in her eye like she was thinking about how big the Ramsheads had grown, and looking forward to taking them down a notch. “You give me Two Bridges, you’ll have peace, but only ‘til spring. I want the bridge.”

Spot tried not to smile. “I’ll give you something better.”

Fidget looked skeptical; Cowboy looked bored.

“Make the bridges neutral - there’s no money to be made there. You take Two Bridges, and I’ll give you the races.”

Cowboy leaned back and whistled quietly. Spot knew he’d gotten it; with him on board, it was only a matter of time until Fidget agreed. Cowboy could talk anyone into anything. 

Fidget gaped at him, then threw her knife on the floor in front of Spot. He tried hard not to flinch. “This ain’t no time for jokes, kid. I’m serious when I says you ain’t getting peace this easy.”

“So am I,” Spot assured her. “You and I both know the races are a dream, selling or stealing. Whoever works ‘em could get fat off those pockets; that’s why we ain’t let no one work there before.” Well - that and the fact that anyone from any gang deserved the right to have a bit of fun when they had extra money. The last time someone had tried to claim the races for one group Spot had been nine, and four gangs had united to get them neutral again.

“The races,” Fidget repeated. “Sheepshead races. You knows, the ones eight miles from the bridge.”

“Seven and a half.” Fidget didn’t know Brooklyn like Spot did. He didn’t expect her to. “I’ll pay the trolley fair.”

That got her. Fidget paused for a long moment and then nodded, spit on her hand and held it out for a shake. Spot returned it.

“I’ll go with the kid tomorrow, meet you at the bridge. Make sure there’s no misunderstandings ‘bout who’s s’posed to be where.”

“Who’s you gonna send?”

Fidget shot an annoyed look at Cowboy but said, “Racer. She needs a new spot, and she’s got the guts for it.”

He, Spot mentally corrected, but didn’t say. Fidget would know soon enough. He nodded. “Afternoon. Before the evening edition’s out. Keep it to one kid working there, make sures it don’t look like an invasion.”

Fidget didn’t look happy about this, but agreed.

Spot turned and left, heading down the three flights of stairs and back to Brooklyn.

Things were looking up.


End file.
